


Fluffballs

by Kyele



Series: Familiaris [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Pack Feels, Polyamory, Slice of Life, Vignettes, happy fluffy feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:23:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: A series of short, fluffy tales from the days, weeks and (nine) months followingIt Takes A Village.Thirteen: The Naming of Pups (Part Three)“A good name sets you up for a good life!” Peter argues.“And a bad name gets changed at the courthouse for sixty-five bucks and ten minutes with a judge,” Jones says.





	1. Testing Positive

**Author's Note:**

> Because I couldn't stop thinking about these three, or this universe. And because our universe could use more fluff.

Neal reads the directions on the package three times. They’re simple, intentionally so, but right now they seem to him like the most complicated, hardest con job he’s ever pulled. He’s going to mess this up. He, who had once stolen a Raphael from the National Gallery and a music box from the heart of the Italian embassy, is going to mess up a simple pregnancy test.

Thank goodness Elizabeth had been the one to buy the test. The way Neal’s acting, he would have grabbed the version meant for Betan women by mistake, and the stick would have malfunctioned and told him he was having ducklings or something.

“Neal?”

Speak of the devil…

“Honey, are you all right in there?”

Neal clears his throat. “I’m fine, El,” he calls back.

“You’re taking a while.”

“The package says it takes five minutes!”

Elizabeth’s dismay is clear even through the door. “You’re going to wait _alone_?”

“Have you even peed on the stick yet?” another voice calls.

“Peter?” Neal swallows. “Are you both standing outside the door waiting for me to – to – ”

“Yes!” they say, in perfect unison.

“Oh my God.”

“You knew what you were getting into when you mated with us.” Now it’s Peter’s smirk that’s visible. This is Neal’s life now: he’s holding a pregnancy test in the bathroom of a modest three-bedroom townhouse, a townhouse he shares with his two overbearing, overprotective, overcoddling –

“Neal, honey, do you need help?” Elizabeth calls, voice full of concern.

– absolutely _insufferable_ Alphas.

Who love him. And whom he loves enough to be doing… this.

“Just give me a second,” Neal sighs.

* * *

He stumbles out of the bathroom a minute later like he’s coming down with the plague, and hands the stick – capped – to Elizabeth. In his decidedly unromantic musings, it’s the stick that had given him the plague. Well. The stick and the aforementioned Alphas.

Actually, just one of the Alphas. But the other one is just as ready and eager for these pups as she will be for the ones next round that will be genetically hers.

“Let’s wait in the living room,” Peter suggests, and all three Burkes troop down the hallway to pile on the couch like a group of overgrown pups having a sleepover. Elizabeth places the stick carefully on the coffee table, and there’s a long moment of silence while they all stare at it.

“Did someone set a timer?” Elizabeth asks.

“I did,” Peter says, holding up his watch.

Silence again.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Elizabeth says. “It’s not a bomb. It’s a pregnancy test. We _want_ it to be positive.”

“That’s the problem,” Neal whispers.

“Honey, you told us your instincts said – ”

“I know!” Under Elizabeth’s steady look, Neal subsides guiltily. “I just – I feel like I want it too much for it to be true.”

“Timer’s done!” Peter shouts. He grabs for the stick, narrowly beating Elizabeth out. Neal cranes his head; Elizabeth comes to her knees, the better to lean over Neal.

Peter’s hand is covering the relevant window. He lifts it. Slowly. He starts humming _Also Sprach Zarathustra._

“Peter, I swear to God – ” Elizabeth begins.

With a magician’s flourish – learned from Neal – Peter pulls his hand the rest of the way away.

They stare.

“Plus,” Neal says. He tries, futilely, to recall what the directions had said. “Plus is good, right?”

Elizabeth squeaks.

“Plus means puppies,” Peter says. There’s a smile on his face big enough to eat the world. Elizabeth has started bouncing up and down on her knees, still squeaking incoherent joyful sounds. It’s making Neal feel vaguely seasick. He wants to keep this moment forever.

Then he squints at the stick. “Why are there three little pluses next to the one big one?”

Elizabeth reaches past Neal to grab her cell phone. “Oh, honey,” she says, speed-dialing the obstetrician. “Didn’t you read the instructions?”


	2. A Visit to the Doctor

“Scoot forward some more,” Dr. Kuang says.

Neal closes his lips over the small, protesting whine that wants to escape. He scoots.

“More.”

Neal scoots again.

Dr. Kuang checks Neal’s position. “A little more…”

Peter is the one who finally snaps. “Does he have to be bent double?” he cries. “Come on!”

Dr. Kuang gives Peter an unimpressed look. “You said this one was the sire?” she checks with Neal, who manages a nod.

“He’s just impatient to see the fruits of our efforts,” Elizabeth says diplomatically. She’s on the _other_ side of the exam table, holding Neal’s right hand. Peter is holding Neal’s left.

“I can tell,” Dr. Kuang says. “How recently did you say the heat was, Neal?”

“Three weeks ago,” he mumbles.

“Three weeks.” Dr. Kuang nods. She’s picked up the ultrasound wand. “Usually we don’t see patients until eight or ten weeks. That’s about when we can start doing the kind of ultrasound you’ve probably seen on TV, the goop-on-the-belly bit. This early, our young carrier-to-be gets a transuterine – meaning I stick _this_ where your Alpha stuck _that_. And to do that, yes, you have to be scooted _all the way down._ ”

Neal scoots. He also keeps a tight grip on Peter and El’s hands, not sure how they’re going to react. And Peter does start to grumble, but then El gives him a look, and he settles down, thank goodness.

“All right,” Dr. Kuang says when Neal is finally positioned to her satisfaction. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

The wand doesn’t feel like anything going in – it’s vaguely shaped for comfort, but smaller than an actual cock, and Dr. Kuang may be sharp with her tone but she’s generous with the lube. There’s an odd shifting sensation as it deviates from the straight and narrow and starts poking into Neal’s flesh, the better to see –

“And there we have it,” Dr. Kuang says with satisfaction. She adjusts the screen so the Burkes can better see, and then starts clicking away at the terminal. Thin yellow digital lines start to appear, drawing a box. Two boxes. Three boxes. Then labels. A, B, C.

“The OTC test said three pups?” she checks, nodding when Elizabeth and Peter both nod, dumbly. “I usually tell patients to take those as a plus or minus one, but in this case it nailed it right on. I see three gestational sacs. Congratulations to your pack, and to you especially, Neal.”

“Three,” Peter says, voice thick with shocked satisfaction.

“Three!” Elizabeth shrieks jubilantly.

“Three?” Neal whispers, and stares at the screen in hushed awe until Dr. Kuang turns it off.

* * *

“I know I was talking about triplets,” Elizabeth is still crowing days later, “but damn, Neal, I didn’t realize you’d take me up on it!”

She’s spinning slowly in the middle of the bedroom they’ve chosen for the nursery, humming in small snatches to herself as she considers the best disposition of the cribs.

“Don’t jinx it,” Neal begs. “You know Dr. Kuang said nothing was certain until at least the first trimester. Implantation failure – ”

“Oh, don’t ruin this for me! I’m so happy!”

“And I love your optimism,” Peter says from the floor, where he’s measuring dimensions, “but, El, remember, Neal’s really worried.”

“I’m sorry,” El says, dropping her arms and coming over to hug Neal. Neal doesn’t try to stop himself from dropping his head onto her shoulder, breathing in her calming scent. “Would it help if you read some of the pamphlets we brought home?”

Dr. Kuang, sensing nerves, had loaded the Burkes down with a staggering amount of informational material. But – “Probably not,” Neal has to admit. “It’s not a rational worry, El.”

“Because Dr. Kuang says that Omegas really aren’t at any higher risk with triplets than singletons; higher-order multiples, yes, but you’re meant to carry litters, unlike Beta women – ”

“El.” Peter gets to his feet. “Neal remembers.”

“I’m sorry,” Neal says. “I’m raining on your parade.”

“It’s not my parade unless it’s your parade too,” Elizabeth says, cupping the back of Neal’s neck and making him look at her. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Come on, let’s break for lunch.”

“Don’t you want to see if the cribs all fit along the window wall?”

“The pups won’t be here for another eight months, and they’ll be sleeping in bassinets in our room for a while after that. We’ve got time. Come on. What are the pups craving?”

“He’s not having cravings yet, El,” Peter says patiently.

“Actually,” Neal says slowly. “I think maybe I want sushi?” He doesn’t usually want sushi, but for some reason some raw salmon suddenly sounds _really_ good.

Elizabeth perks up, eager. “I would _love_ to go get you sushi.”


	3. Workplace Disclosure

“Okay, so we’re agreed,” Neal says as Peter turns into the parking garage beneath the FBI building. “We’re not going to make a big deal out of this.”

“Nope,” Peter affirms.

“This is our pack and our business. Nothing that needs to be brought up in the workplace.”

“Absolutely.”

Peter turns off the engine and comes around to open Neal’s door. Neal raises an eyebrow, and Peter backs off, hands up, with a look that says _who, me?_

Neal gets out of the car. “At the end of the first trimester we’ll notify Hughes and HR, but even then, really, there’s no need for it to interfere with my work.”

“Until you go on desk duty, of course.” That’s always been part of the agreement, that Neal will pull out of the field when he reaches a certain point in gestation and stick to a desk.

“Of course,” Neal says. “But before then – ”

“We’re not going to make a big deal out of it.”

“Exactly,” Neal says. The elevator arrives down at the parking level and opens its doors with a muted _ding_. Peter escorts Neal aboard with a possessive hand at the small of his back, smiling and nodding at the other occupants of the elevator.

“Now, at some point, someone may talk to you about throwing a puppy shower,” Neal continues as the level indicators tick up. “Discourage that.”

“What do you have against puppy showers?”

Neal shudders theatrically. “Apart from the game with the candy bars in the diapers?”

“Candy bars in the – ”

“They’re supposed to look like poop.”

That gives Peter pause. “And this is a game people play in workplace parties.”

“Hand to God.”

“Okay, I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Is this your floor?” one of the other agents in the elevator says. Neal and Peter both look up; she’s holding the doors open, and the floor indicator says _21_.

“Yes, thanks,” Peter says, and they pile out.

Just before Peter pulls open the large glass doors, Neal tugs on his sleeve and lowers his voice. “Seriously, Peter. I don’t want there to be a lot of workplace fuss over this.”

“Uh,” Peter says. He pushes open the door slightly.

“ _CONGRATULATIONS!_ ” the entire white collar division shouts in unison.

They’re all gathered around, clearly waiting for Peter and Neal. Many of them are clapping. There is, Neal sees in horror, a banner.

A _banner_.

Peter claps a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “El may have sent out a mass email.”

“When?” Neal asks weakly.

“Right around when Dr. Kuang said ‘three pups’.”

Several of the more junior agents have started hooting and hollering. One of them yells, “Good one, Neal!” Her buddy chokes, gasps, and yells, “No, no, good _three_ Neal!” The entire group of probies promptly takes “good three” up as a chant. Several agents do a remarkably poor job of muffling their laughter.

Peter’s hand migrates from Neal’s shoulder to wrap around his waist supportively. “I can still see what I can do about the poop games at the shower,” he offers, guiding Neal into the office and down the long stretch to Peter’s office.

“Yeah,” Neal says, quietly stunned. “Thanks. That would be good.”

“But as far as keeping a low profile goes…” Diana and Jones are standing just outside Peter’s office, each of them holding up one end of an enormous sheet cake. Three monstrously frosted balloons take up half of the cake; the rest is taken up by a baker’s loopy cursive, reading, _Congratulations Neal and Burke Pack!_

“The Greatest Cake?” Neal asks resignedly.

“As if we’d go anywhere else,” Jones says, mock-offended.

“All right, all right, put it in the breakroom,” Peter says. “Neal’s a little overwhelmed.”

“Big news,” Diana says. “We get it.”

“We’ll put off the parade till tomorrow,” Jones says.

Neal wheels on Peter, horrified. “Parade?”

“There’s no parade!” Peter glares at Diana and Jones. “Go on, get out of here. Neal and I are gonna check our email for a while. Don’t disturb us unless it’s an emergency.”

“Oh, checking the old email, huh?” Jones grins, taking the cake fully from Diana and heading off with it.

“Well, what else are they gonna do? Neal’s already knocked up…” Diana’s grin is even wider. She gets out of range just before Peter’s reflexive swat can catch her shoulder.

“Peter…” Neal starts, voice small.

“Okay, come on, let’s go look at some emails.” Peter gets his door open and practically shoves Neal inside. He pauses before coming in himself, leaning over the railing to look down on the bullpen and shout, “Thank you, everyone, but please, get back to work!” Then he’s back in his office and closing the door.

Neal has half-fallen, half-collapsed into his usual chair. He looks up at Peter, mutely pleading for answers. Peter holds up his hands: he doesn’t have any.

“At least they’re happy for us?” Peter tries.

Neal rolls his head around to loosen his neck and tries to shake it off. “Yeah,” he says.

Peter’s forced cheer falls away, leaving something softer behind. “I know you didn’t want a big deal made out of it, and I’m sorry for that,” he says. “But I’m _not_ sorry that they know – because every agent who was out there cheering for us is another agent the bad guys have to go through to get to you, Neal. Not that the division weren’t going to be on our side before, but we all get funny around offspring. They’d’ve pulled their guns for you before. Now they’ll take a bullet.” Peter tries a smile again, a real one this time. “We’ve stared down enough of those in our time that that means something to me.”

“It means something to me too.” Neal sighs. “I – I didn’t want them treating me like I can’t pull my weight now.”

“That’s the con talking,” Peter says gently. “Advantage of being on the right side of the law. On this side, we don’t each have to be all the way strong all the time. Sometimes some of us can be more than strong, so someone else can be a little less strong, if they need to be.”

Neal looks at him gratefully. But all he says is, “Check your email, Peter.”

Peter chuckles. “Sure thing, Jimmy B.”


	4. The Godfather Cometh

Elizabeth is laughing at a joke she’s just told Peter, who is giving her the foolish fond smile that is his equivalent of sustained laughter, the one that means all is well in his world and he’s at peace. Neal is between them, their arms around his waist, his head falling on each of their shoulders by turns. He’s stuffed with good food (if not good wine) and almost somnolent with repletion. Elizabeth had helped him out of the car and now both Alphas are supporting him to the front door, which is really quite delightful.

“Date night success?” Peter asks, as Elizabeth starts digging out her keys.

“Date night success,” Neal proclaims happily.

“Peter?”

Elizabeth’s voice has lost its happy edge. Peter tenses. “What is it?”

“The door’s unlocked.”

The mood changes. “El, take Neal.”

Elizabeth and Peter swap places while Neal straightens up. He’s not actually drunk, after all, though he’d been enjoying the way the stomach full of good food had counterfeited that effect, now that he’s no longer able to drink wine. He’s barely two months along; he can still take care of himself in a fight. But he doesn’t waste time or breath protesting that he doesn’t need anyone to ‘take’ him. Peter’s got his gun in one hand and is reaching for the doorknob with his other; he won’t be able to properly focus if his back-brain instincts are shrieking at him about his Omega – his _pregnant_ Omega – being vulnerable. Neal stays behind Elizabeth, but he puts his hand in his pocket and curls his fingers around the compact but heavy flashlight-slash-panic-button Peter insists he carry.

The door opens smoothly. Peter takes one step in and stops, gun trained on a shadowy figure in an armchair, easily visible from the front door.

“Who are you?” Peter demands.

The shadowy figure holds out a hand on which a ring gleams. Neal tenses farther.

Then a familiar voice says, “You should call me… Godfather.”

Neal sags in relief. Peter swears and hits the lights. “God damn it, Mozzie!”

Mozzie leans forward, smiling. “Admit it, suit. You were worried.”

“Of course I admit it!” Peter stomps around turning on even more lights. Elizabeth, shaking her head, ushers Neal inside and closes the door behind them, locking it this time. “Jesus Christ.”

Mozzie looks past Peter and smirks at Neal. “Alphas, am I right?”

Neal shakes his head. “Mozzie, I gotta say, I’m not too thrilled with this either,” he tells his friend. “This is supposed to be our safe place, you know?” Elizabeth comes up behind him and puts her arms around him, soothing, and he leans back into her. To Mozzie he says: “You _know_ we’re all feeling more vulnerable right now.”

Mozzie shifts his gaze to Elizabeth. “Omegas, am I right?”

“You’re skating on thin ice,” Elizabeth tells him. “I don’t care if Betas don’t have the same instincts we do, you had to sit through Human Sexuality class like everyone else.”

Apparently realizing he’s actually crossing a line here, Mozzie backs off. “I’m sorry. I got caught up in the joke and didn’t think. Let me make it up to you?”

Peter comes back in from checking the backyard in time to hear this. He closes and locks the back door and stands in front of it, arms crossed. “This I’ve got to see.”

* * *

“Okay, I admit it,” Peter says. “These _are_ nice.”

They’re standing in the room that will one day be the nursery. When the Burkes had left for dinner it had been empty. Now it’s still mostly empty, but standing in the middle of the room are three beautiful, obviously hand-crafted, cleverly worked cribs.

“Solid walnut,” Mozzie says proudly. “Very fashionable, of course, but I wouldn’t buy you something that was just for looks. They’ll pull their weight when the pups come.”

“Look, Peter,” Elizabeth says. She’s holding the hand-written ‘manual’ up and paging through it. “They convert to toddler beds.”

“And they’re also equipped with state of the art monitoring software,” Mozzie says. “At the push of a button, you, at any time, will be able to see, hear, and even scent how the little ones are doing. There’s also life sign monitoring, and you can wire them up to call a phone number of your choice if life signs drop or if monitoring is unexpectedly disconnected – say, if someone takes a pup from the crib without hitting the right combination in the keypad first.” Mozzie indicates the keypad in question with a sweeping arm gesture copied straight from Vanna White.

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Peter’s the first one to speak, and he has to clear his throat first. “That’s amazing,” he says sincerely. “Thank you, Mozzie.”

Mozzie waves his hands. “Oh,” he says, “it was nothing, really. And I’m sorry I scared you, before.”

“All is forgiven,” Peter says.

“What does this schematic mean?” Elizabeth asks, pointing to something in the ‘manual’.

“Oh, that shows how you can arrange them if you want to hook the optional changing table in between the cribs,” Mozzie says proudly. “See, you do a two-and-one configuration, like this – ”

Elizabeth makes an excited noise. “And then these two attachments connect to form a changing table?”

“And you stick the diaper pail underneath.” Mozzie beams.

Peter is measuring the length of the cribs. “How big is that gap?” he asks. “Because if it’s not too big – ”

“Suit, come on,” Mozzie says. “Of _course_ they’ll all fit under the window wall. I took the dimensions of the room into account when I had these made.”

“Oooh, honey, let’s line them up and see!” Elizabeth tosses the manual aside and picks up one end of the crib closest to her, waiting expectantly for Peter to take the other end.

He does. “Step back, you two,” Peter says to Neal and Mozzie, watching as Elizabeth starts to back up, crib in hand.

Neal grabs Mozzie’s arm and pulls him back. Elizabeth pivots carefully, but she can’t see behind her head, and she still nearly clocks Mozzie.

“A little further,” she suggests, patting the crib apologetically.

Neal chuckles. “C’mon, Moz. Let’s let the Alphas nest.”

“Alphas, am I right?” Mozzie jokes, letting Neal pull him out into the hallway.

“Yeah,” Neal says fondly. He gives Mozzie a hug. “Thanks for the cribs. They’re gorgeous.”

“Aw, it was nothing,” Mozzie beams. “So! I still get to be their godfather, right?”

Neal chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “You still get to be their godfather.”

From behind them, inside the room, there’s the sound of one end of a hand-made custom walnut crib being dropped. “ _What_?” Peter shouts.


	5. Morning Rituals (Lead Weight)

Neal wakes up with a sudden urgency: something is pressing down on his bladder, and he _needs to move_ , except he can’t because there’s a weight on this thighs, and –

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Elizabeth purrs. She’s straddling his thighs, hands busily rubbing something warm and liquid into his stomach, which would normally feel divine but right now just makes him _need to pee._ “Had to get an early start this morning, but didn’t want to leave you and the pups thinking I wasn’t around.”

“El,” Neal croaks. “Pee.”

Elizabeth pauses. “And who says pregnancy is the most romantic time of your mated life?” she murmurs to himself, rolling off of Neal resignedly.

“I’m _sorry_!” Neal runs, knees shaking as he finally voids his bladder. Empty and relieved, he stumbles back into the bedroom and clings to the doorframe, watching as Elizabeth picks out jewelry. Peter snores on, oblivious, in the bed they share.

“It’s okay, hon,” she assures him, putting her earrings in and giving him a warm smile. “You’re focusing on the pups right now.”

“One of them seems to have parked themselves on top of my bladder and is refusing to budge,” Neal tells her. “I’m nicknaming them Lead Weight.”

Elizabeth laughs. “That’s something to tell their prom date about in eighteen years.”

“Prom?” Neal stares, wide-eyed, at the thought. _He’d_ never gone to prom. He tries to imagine the triplets all grown up – well, mostly – dressed in finery, dates on their arms and stars in their eyes… He fails completely, but his lips tug up anyway.

“Prom,” Elizabeth agrees. “Or maybe before dates.” Her smile’s turned mischievous.

“Nah,” Neal says, although it makes something in him go soft and gooey to think about. “Let them keep their mystique. It’s important to have mystique.” He gestures at himself. “Look what it did for me.”

“Neal, honey, I hate to break it to you, but we love you for what’s _beneath_ your mystique.” Elizabeth comes over to kiss Neal, mussed hair, morning breath, uncooperative bladder and all. “Not that the mystique didn’t add spice to the courtship.” She smirks.

“That’s not what Peter says,” Neal says feelingly.

Elizabeth tilts her head to the side. “Hah.” She disentangles herself from Neal – one of her hands had found its way to his ass, as usual – and checks herself again in the mirror. “Got to run. Go back to sleep. Give Peter something nice to wake up to.”

“Will do.” Neal yawns. “Have a nice day, El.”

“You too.”

After she leaves, Neal doesn’t immediately follow her advice. He wanders about the room first, touching this thing and that, marveling at it all. At the way he’s just allowed to touch. Because this is his space, too.

It doesn’t last long. Soon enough Peter stirs, subconsciously sensing that his bed is empty, and reaches towards the space where Neal isn’t. Neal doesn’t want to wake him early; they’d had a hard couple of days, tracking down the ringleaders of a Ponzi scheme, and sleep had been in short supply. For that matter, Neal’s own eyes are starting to droop. He slides himself back into bed, under the covers and into Peter’s arms, putting his con skills to a good use. Putting the world back together in the shape it should have.

Peter sighs happily and subsides back into deeper sleep. Neal tucks his chin down, catches Peter’s scent and Elizabeth’s, lingering on her pillow, and follows Peter down into happy dreams.


	6. Wiggler

It’s hour twenty-nine of a round-the-clock affair, and Neal is feeling it in a way he never has before. Sure, his eyes would always get gritty, and his posture sometimes slumped. His stomach might sour a little from the effects of too much takeout and cheap wine. But he’s never felt so achy it’s like he’d collected a hard beating yesterday and is working it off today. He’s never wanted to just put his head down on the table and close his eyes. And he’s certainly never had to bolt for the bathroom because Peter had unwrapped a deviled-ham sandwich in the chair next to him, and Neal’s stomach had turned over like a seasick sailor’s in the middle of the Atlantic.

Neal finishes heaving and gives in to the urge to spit. He’s never gotten into the habit of keeping a toothbrush and other basic toiletries in the office, as some of the other agents do. Perhaps it’s time to start.

“Neal?” Peter’s voice, accompanied by Peter’s distinctive rap on the bathroom door. “Are you all right? Do you need a hand?”

“I’m fine.” Neal rinses out his mouth and looks at himself in the mirror. A little red around the eyes, probably something sour still lingering in his scent. Great. There’s no way Peter isn’t going to worry.

“Are you sure?” The doorknob rattles.

“Jesus Christ, Peter, this is an Omega restroom.” Neal comes out before Peter can actually invade the sanctum.

“We’re in New York, not North Carolina,” Peter says dismissively.

“Fair enough.” Neal tries to turn away, to go back up to the conference room in which the team is assembled, but Peter reaches for him, and Neal, after a brief moment of debate, surrenders to the inevitable and lets himself be caught. Peter cups Neal’s face in his big capable hands and looks at Neal searchingly.

“You’re exhausted,” Peter says, self-recrimination clear in his voice and posture.

One of Peter’s thumbs has wandered to Neal’s lips; Neal kisses it quickly. “We’re all exhausted,” he reminds Peter.

“Yes, but you more than anyone. I should have sent you home.”

“You could have tried.”

Peter frowns. “There wasn’t anything in the last twelve hours that couldn’t have been handled just as ably by any other member of my staff.”

That’s true, Neal knows it is – there’s nothing of art or the art of the con about this case; it’s just police work, running down leads, collating data, putting one weary foot in front of the other – but Neal shakes his head anyway. “There’s a little girl in trouble, Peter. You think I could sleep?”

Peter’s hands try to drop; Neal catches them. “No,” Peter sighs. “But you could have eaten something. Don’t try to deny it,” he adds, when Neal would have disclaimed. “You never eat the deviled ham, but tonight you didn’t even touch the Magnolia Café take-out.”

“Nauseated,” Neal admits. “I’m getting this weird flutter… like every time I look at food, or smell it, my stomach just turns over.” He shrugs. “Probably just a bug.”

Peter looks at Neal. “Or…”

Neal blinks. Peter’s hands lower – perforce, Neal’s come with them – until they’re poking gently at the teeny, tiny, barely existent bump he’s just beginning to sport.

“Oh,” Neal says blankly. “You – you think?”

“My carrier threw up a lot with us,” Peter says apologetically.

“Oh.” Neal closes his eyes in heartfelt dismay. “Ah.”

“When this is over we’ll call him. Get some suggestions for what might sit well on your stomach – oh my God – Neal – was that?”

Neal looks down. “My stomach just turned over, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I _felt_ something,” Peter says in awe.

“Good for you,” Neal grumps. “ _I_ just felt like puking again.”

Peter gives Neal a complicated look which mixes joy, dismay, and a uniquely Peter emotion which loosely translates to ‘why must you ruin this for me’. Neal, predictably, wilts. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s very magical.”

“It _is_ ,” Peter says. Despite the continued complicated look, there’s awe in his tone. “These are our _pups_ , Neal.”

“Just one of them at the moment.” Then Lead Weight – who has remained stubbornly parked atop Neal’s bladder – shifts suddenly, and Neal groans. “Make that two. Excuse me, I’ve gotta…”

Just then Jones sticks his head over the railing and shouts, “Peter! We’ve got a lead!”

“I’m coming!” Peter shouts back. “Neal – ”

“There in a sec,” Neal promises, heading back into the bathroom.

* * *

Three hours later, they’re standing next to an FBI van, trading satisfied smiles as a little girl is reunited with her parents and a bad guy is hauled away in cuffs.

“Nicely done,” Peter is telling everyone who walks by, distributing praise and pats on the back indiscriminately. He even awards one to Neal, who, to his shame, burps.

“Here you go,” Jones says, approaching with two steaming cups in his hand. “Last coffee of the night, hopefully. Just to get you through the initial paperwork.” Peter takes his gratefully. “And decaf for you, Neal.”

Neal puts his hand over his mouth and shakes his head. “Thanks anyway, Jones, but I think it’s time I switched to ginger ale.”

“Nauseated?” Jones nods. “Lead Weight up to a new trick?” Neal’s nickname for his bladder-troubling pup is well known around the office, as are his frequent bathroom runs.

“Lead Weight hasn’t budged. It’s their sibling.” Neal sighs. “I think I’m calling this one Wiggler.”

Peter gives Neal a sideways look. “Wiggler? Really?”

“I’ll just go hunt down some ginger ale,” Jones says diplomatically, and vanishes.

“What?” Neal asks.

“I’m not thrilled with these names.”

“They’re nicknames, Peter. We’re not actually naming the pups Lead Weight and Wiggler.”

“Still,” Peter says. “Try to be nicer with nicknaming the third one, okay?”

“No promises,” Neal says, wincing as Wiggler does it again. “Ugh.”


	7. The Naming of Pups (Part One)

The front door squeaks when it opens. This doesn’t prevent Peter from yelling, as he maneuvers his heavily laden way in, “Elizabeth! Neal! I’m home!”

“Yes, dear,” Neal murmurs, moving _his_ heavily laden self from the kitchen through to the living room. He’s firmly into the second trimester now, and he’s finally, seriously showing, ending a long-running source of dismay – for Neal, not the Alphas; _Neal’s_ the one who hadn’t been able to get a seat on the subway because he didn’t look pregnant enough for anyone to notice. Not that Peter or Elizabeth are complaining about the new bump. Elizabeth, especially, is finding Neal’s baby belly just about the hottest thing since heat itself. And Peter keeps waking up in the middle of the night to find his hands have wandered to the bump while he’s been sleeping.

“Welcome home, Peter,” Elizabeth says calmly from the sofa. Neal settles down next to her. He’s holding two glasses, and the wine had better not be for him – no, he’s handing it to Elizabeth, good. The other glass holds sparkling cider. Excellent. Peter approves.

But: “Scoot over,” Peter tells him. He makes his way into the living room and drops the heavy stacks of paper he’s carrying onto the coffee table with a _thud_.

“Shoes,” Neal scolds.

Peter frowns, aggrieved. But Neal’s word is law – at least, within these walls – so Peter makes a show of going back to the front door, tugging off his loafers and lining them up – neatly – on the shoe rack. His coat gets the same treatment, slotted into the closet. His briefcase goes onto the floor next to the entryway, ready for tomorrow. That done, Peter presents himself again for inspection.

“Do I pass muster?” he demands.

Neal sips his cider and regards Peter gravely. “Always.”

In spite of himself, that makes the corners of Peter’s mouth quirk. “Hah.” He comes back into the living room and sits down – Neal _has_ scooted over, so that Peter gets the middle seat, and he smiles in appreciation. The middle seat doesn’t have anywhere convenient to rest a glass, but it _does_ mean he gets to have his mates on both sides of him, and that makes it the most coveted seat in the house. They’d used to have a rotation. It’s currently Neal’s to take whenever he wants, due to his delicate condition, and Peter leans over to kiss Neal in thanks for giving it up.

“Mmmm,” Elizabeth drawls, appreciating the view. Neal laughs. Peter turns and gives her the exact same treatment. She rumbles her approval. There’s a soft sigh behind them, and Peter turns to see Neal regarding them both with an aura of pleased contentment.

“Welcome home,” Neal says.

“What did you bring?” Elizabeth asks, indicating the stacks of papers.

“Oh!” Peter straightens, pulling himself out of the quagmire of domestic bliss with a start. There’s business afoot. “Tonight is the night.”

“It is?” Elizabeth asks in bemusement. “What night?”

“The night we finally come up with something to call these pups besides Lead Weight, Wiggler, and – what are you calling the third one?” Peter has to ask Neal.

“Thumper,” Neal says, wincing. “Ow. They’re at it again.”

“Ribs?” Elizabeth asks. She leans over – draping herself enticingly over Peter to do it – and gets a hand on Neal’s belly. Peter can see the way her hand jumps, and Elizabeth laughs in delight. “That one’s an Alpha for sure.”

“Not that that matters,” Peter says hastily.

Neal looks amused. “Relax, big man. I know what she means.” He glances past the Alphas and to the stacks of paper sitting on the coffee table. “So what’s all this, and how’s it going to help us pick names?”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with the names you already have,” Elizabeth coos at the bump. “No there isn’t.”

Peter grits his teeth. But discretion and valor and all that: he moves on. “These,” he says proudly, indicating the stacks of paper, “are the top 1000 names annually given to pups, according to the Social Security database. For the last twenty years.”

There’s a moment of silence. Elizabeth’s head turns slowly, until both she and Neal are gazing at Peter with almost identical expressions of pitying dismay.

“You _really_ don’t like the nicknames, then,” Elizabeth says after a moment.

Neal’s gaze has shifted to the stacks of paper. “You used _FBI resources_ for this,” he says in awed realization.

“Everything is in triplicate,” Peter says. “We’ll each take a stack, go through, and indicate any names we like. Then we’ll compare lists and note names in common. That will be the master list. Then, if there’s anyone else we want to consult, we can do that then – ”

“Peter, this isn’t an operation,” Neal says, laughing. “You’re treating this like there’s a crooked financier at the other end and a misstep will lead to lives being ruined.”

“A name is _important_ ,” Peter insists. “A bad name _can_ ruin lives! There was this kid in my elementary school – ”

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Elizabeth soothes. Contrary to stereotypical norms, it’s she, not Neal, who is the peacemaker in their triad. “We’re taking this seriously. Just… maybe not as seriously as you are.”

“These pups are going to be here in _five and a half months,”_ Peter insists, ignoring the look Neal is giving him that says he’s getting a little bit wild-eyed. “And so far all we have in the way of names are Lead Weight, Wiggler, and – and – ”

“Thumper,” Elizabeth and Neal say simultaneously.

“And we’re not _actually_ going to call them that,” Neal adds, exasperated.

“It’s not a bad idea to start thinking about what we _are_ going to call them,” Elizabeth says, resorting again to her soothing tone. “We could make a romantic evening of it. Put on a nice movie, or some music. Go through the lists together. You know, trio time.” She pauses, visibly casting about for something else to make this more alluring.

Peter is already prepared. He reaches into a pocket and produces his secret weapons.

“Are those truffles from that little place on twenty-eighth street?” Neal perks up, making grabby hands at the package.

“To beguile the boring hours,” Peter says, handing it over with a smile.

“Nice,” Elizabeth says approvingly. “Some of those _are_ for me, right?”

“I got the white chocolate ones you like,” Peter assures her. To Neal: “And the dark chocolate ones too.”

“All right, I’m in,” Neal says, undoing the package with a somewhat embarrassed air. He’s probably remembering, as Peter is, the old Neal, whose passions had been fine art and fine wine and evading arrest. This Neal, who can be bought with (admittedly expensive) truffles, and who will indulge his mate by spending an evening digging through the Social Security Offspring Name Database, sometimes seems like an entirely different person.

Then Neal looks up with that devil-may-care grin, and suddenly the world snaps back into focus again. The line from old to new becomes clear, not the death of the latter but merely his growth in the most natural of ways, to become the person he is today. “But,” Neal says, holding up a finger, “ _I_ get to choose the movie.”

“Deal,” Peter says, and passes out the highlighters with a smile.


	8. The Naming of Pups (Part Two)

“So how goes the great naming?” Jones asks a week later, handing Neal the latest data from his current mortgage fraud case. Neal’s growing belly might be good for getting him a seat on the subway – well, sometimes; this is still New York – but it isn’t good for Neal’s boredom level. Once he’d popped, he’d had to abide by the old agreement he’d made with Peter and Elizabeth and restrict himself to desk work. Which mainly means battling his old nemesis, mortgage fraud, while watching Peter and the rest of the team go out and risk their lives without him. Sure, he can give advice, he can listen in over a headset – but it’s not the same. Peter won’t even let Neal sit in the van, lest he give in to temptation and rush into a dangerous situation.

The only thing keeping Neal relatively sane has been the hours _outside_ of work, which – always enjoyable – had turned into some kind of idyllic utopia, with Peter and Elizabeth competing to see who could make Neal happiest. At least, until The Great Naming had commenced.

“It’s _awful_ ,” Neal says, seizing the opportunity to vent. “Peter hates any name that doesn’t sound like it’s straight from a novel set in the fifties. He wants to name our kids stuff like Mabel and Ernest. Elizabeth likes modern names, modern spellings very much included. They have each gone through more than a thousand names and found exactly zero that they can agree on. Last night at dinner, Peter was bringing in the pasta and Elizabeth said ‘Bailey’. Except she apparently wasn’t saying ‘Bailey’, she was saying ‘Baeli’. And somehow, Jones, I swear to God I don’t even know how, but Peter could tell from her tone of _voice_ how she was spelling it!”

“I’m guessing you didn’t have a quiet dinner after that,” Jones says sympathetically.

Neal attempts to convey, with his slumping posture and vacant gaze, that he has seen things that he cannot unsee and heard things he cannot unhear. “I wouldn’t have said anything could ruin our bond, but I’m starting to think this is going to do it.”

“Hyperbole?”

“Yes, this is what I’ve been reduced to.”

“Damn.” Jones frowns. Slowly he says, “You know… there are three pups… three of you… have you considered…?”

“No,” Neal says hastily. “I mean, yes, but no, no thank you. Peter _might_ go for it but neither El or I want to wonder who’s being yelled at when someone yells our name.”

“Ah. Fair enough.”

“Maybe you could talk to Peter,” Neal suggests in a burst of insight. “Tell him it’s okay to name our kid something that isn’t the Gospel truth.”

Jones raises an incredulous eyebrow. “The Gospel truth?”

“Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John.”

Jones groans. “That’s terrible.”

“Everything is terrible right now,” Neal says earnestly. “Seriously! If you told Peter that being called Clinton didn’t lead to years of being beaten up on the playground, he might loosen up!”

“Only problem with that is, it _did_ lead to me getting beaten up on the playground.”

Neal slumps. “It did?”

“Neal. Think about it. Who was president when I was a schoolkid?”

Neal does some math and winces. “Ah.”

“I think you’re probably safe expanding beyond the Gospels, but mostly? I’m with Peter on this one. Keep it simple, keep it classic, and your kids will never regret it.” Jones shrugs. “Or if they do, they can adopt a nickname. Like that friend of yours.”

“Mozzie.”

“Yeah. Best part about nicknames is, you can change them whenever you want. Your real name, you’re stuck with. Barring a court order.”

“Fat lot of help you are,” Neal grumbles.

Jones grins. “All part of the service.”


	9. The Betting Pool (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More on the naming of pups will be coming, but this event needed to happen first!

“Today’s the big day, huh?”

Neal looks up and blinks. “Diana?” He blinks again, hoping to clear the cobwebs from his brain. “Uh, I think I’m gonna need a few more days to track down the perp, actually.”

Diana props herself up against the side of Neal’s desk and rolls her eyes. “I’m not talking about mortgage fraud! I’m talking about the appointment on your calendar for this afternoon. I’m talking about the way this time tomorrow I’m going to have won a nice fat pot.”

“Pot,” Neal says blankly. Then memory rushes into him. This afternoon is Neal’s twenty-week ultrasound. The one in which they’ll learn – “Wait a second, you’re _betting_ on the sex of the pups?”

“The entire _office_ is betting,” Diana says, in the patient tone of someone who explains the obvious.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Diana grins. “It’s not going to feel ridiculous when it lets me take Christie out to a nice dinner on the strength of my winnings.”

“I’m going to tell Peter, and he’s going to shut the whole thing down,” Neal says confidently. Then he pauses, glances around, and lowers his voice. “What’s your bet?”

Diana leans forward. “Why? Do you want in?”

“In on what?”

Neal jumps. Diana, who had probably seen Peter coming, the traitor, simply straightens again and assumes an innocent look. It’s a very effective look – probably why she’s such an excellent undercover agent.

“The lunch order,” Diana says easily.

Peter perks up. “Where are we ordering from?”

“Pho Saigon.”

“Count me in,” Peter says happily. “I’ll have the Pho Tai Nam.”

“Got it, boss.”

“And get me that file on the Menendez case.” Peter grins. “ _After_ you order lunch.”

Diana laughs. “Can do.”

“Great.” Peter gives Neal a quick kiss, then wanders back to his office.

“And I’ll have the Bun Bo Hu,” Neal says, “since we’re apparently doing this now.”

Diana shrugs. “I wanted something hot for lunch today anyway.”

Neal nods. Out of the corner of his eye, he’s still tracking Peter. As soon as Peter’s office door closes behind him, Neal leans forward again. “I’ve gotta know. What are the odds?”

Diana pulls out her smartphone and starts scrolling. “Okay, starting from the bottom: three Alphas, two to one on…”

“Wait, wait,” Neal says suspiciously. “You’re looking on your phone – oh my God, is this _online_?”

“How else could it achieve market penetration?”

Neal’s jaw drops. “This isn’t just an office poll?”

“Define ‘office’.”

“White Collar!”

“Oh, no, definitely not,” Diana says, amused. “Kimberley Rice in Kidnapping and Missing Persons went for two Alphas and an Omega, at even odds. Westley – ”

“Our old probie?”

“He’s in Joint Terrorism now. Must remember Peter fondly, though, he went for one Alpha and two Omegas. Or he just doesn’t mind losing.”

“What are the odds for a one-two split?” Neal asks, interested in spite of himself. He doesn’t _really_ buy into that macho bullshit about the number of Omegas an Alpha sires being a direct reflection of their virility, and he’s pretty sure Peter doesn’t either, but he’s still curious. So sue him.

“Five to one against,” Diana says with relish.

“Nice,” Neal murmurs.

“And then, of course, there’s the holy grail.” Diana swipes to the bottom of her phone with a flourish. “Three Omegas.”

“No way,” Neal says, laughing. “You’ve stared at the same demographic statistics I have. Even discounting Betas, which I can’t have conceived, Alpha births outnumber Omegas by about four to one.”

“That doesn’t make three Omegas _impossible_ , just unlikely.” Diana grins. “And should the lucky winner be in that category, they’ll be collecting their payout at the delicious odds of twelve to one. Also against.”

Neal whistles. Then something occurs to him. “Hang on. This isn’t just a workplace betting pool. Who’s bankrolling this?”

Diana rolls her eyes. “Three guesses.”

“Mozzie,” Neal says in resignation.

“He’d better be ready to be out some dough.” Diana leans forward and pats Neal’s belly gently – a daring move for one not of the pack, but she’d been granted permission from the beginning; Diana may not be _pack_ pack, but she’s still team. “I’m going to clean him out.”

“Diana,” Neal protests. “You _didn’t_.”

“I did.” Diana smiles beatifically. “Like I said. Christie and I are going to have a _really_ nice dinner.”

* * *

For the rest of the day, right up until he’s sitting in the car with Peter on their way to pick up El, Neal debates telling Peter about the betting pool. He decides against it when he sees the way Peter is clutching at the wheel. Although today’s scan will tell them the sex of their pups, that’s not its actual purpose: the official name of today’s ultrasound is the ‘anatomy scan’, and its goal is to check for anything abnormal – everything from counting fingers to making sure that all three pups have their organs _inside_ their bodies. Peter’s been nervous for weeks, and it hasn’t been the nervousness of a sire waiting to find out how many Omegas are in the litter.

Actually, Peter’s never expressed a preference one way or another. And Neal, absent any reason to suspect otherwise, has always assumed Peter will be just as happy with Alpha pups as Omega pups. Peter isn’t obsessed about continuing his genetic line. He won’t count coup over how many grandpups he has. He’ll love all his pups just the same, and never think that an Alpha will probably only sire one or two litters in their lifetime, while most Omegas carry between one and two litters _per Alpha._ He won’t calculate that, with the average pack-bond comprising three Alphas, an Alpha’s statistical upper limit is six grandpups, while an Omega’s average _starts_ at six and goes up to eighteen within two standard deviations...

Peter doesn’t care about any of that.

Probably.

“Peter…” Neal starts.

“They’re going to be fine,” Peter says immediately. He sounds like this is something he’s been saying to himself, silently, over and over again. “They’re all going to be healthy, and beautiful, and perfect. All three. Perfect.”

Neal smiles to himself. “Of course they are,” he tells Peter, reaching across the center console to put his hand on Peter’s thigh. “All three of them. Absolutely perfect. Just like their sire.”


	10. The Betting Pool (Part Two)

They swing by the house and pick up Elizabeth, and immediately the mood in the car picks up, too. Elizabeth has a gift for shooing storm clouds away with her mere presence. She’s the peacemaker of their pack, not Neal; she has no more respect for gender roles than she does for posturing Alphas who care more about the number of their grandpups than the happiness of their pack. And Neal should have remembered that, before he’d doubted Peter. Should have remembered that Elizabeth’s an amazingly good judge of character, for someone who’s never had to live or die by those skills, and she would never have formed a bond with Peter if Peter weren’t just the same. Neal decides to blame his brief moment of doubt on hormones and pretend it had never happened.

Elizabeth _does_ lean over the back seat of the car and show Neal her smartphone, surreptitiously. Her browser’s open to burkepackbetting.officeodds.com, and it shows that one _El_B_ has put down a cool hundred-fifty on a one-to-two Alpha-to-Omega split, at five to one against.

“There’s a new day spa down the street from the catering company that specializes in prenatal massage,” Elizabeth tells Neal conspiratorially.

“Yeah, at three hundred bucks an hour,” Peter grumbles, turning left into the parking garage.

Elizabeth grins cheekily. “I’m hoping to land a big account soon,” she says, tucking her phone away and winking at Neal. “They do postnatal, too. At this spa.”

“You’re just buttering him up so he’ll agree to do this again with _your_ pups,” Peter says fondly, pulling into a parking space.

Elizabeth contrives to look about as innocent as a toddler with cookie crumbs around her mouth. Neal laughs and twists around, now that the car has stopped moving and it won’t make him dizzy. Elizabeth looking mischievous has always been extremely kissable.

“I won’t say no to a massage,” Neal tells her, after the kissing has been accomplished, “but you know bribery’s not necessary.”

“One litter at a time,” Elizabeth says, wiggling out of the backseat.

* * *

The next day, Peter nearly turns right instead of left going out of their neighborhood, narrowly avoids a fire hydrant three streets later, and does manage to hop a curb when they turn onto Park Avenue. Fortunately they’ve got sturdy tires and excellent suspension – a necessity, when their personal car sometimes gets pressed into FBI service – and they’re spared the indignity of having to change a flat in full view of Midtown. But Neal frowns at Peter anyway, one hand conspicuously placed on his belly, and tells his mate, “If you can’t keep your mind on the road, I’m taking the keys.”

“The steering wheel airbag – ” Peter starts.

“Is less of a threat to these pups than your driving, right now.”

That’s a trifle harsh, but it does the job: Peter gets them to the FBI building without further incident. He’s still visibly distracted as they get out of the car, and for once it’s Neal steering Peter into the elevator. Peter has barely been able to put one foot in front of the other since yesterday’s appointment. Elizabeth had had to drive them home, and Peter has spent most of the time since then staring at Neal, a vacant, foolish, silly smile breaking out on his face at regular intervals.

“He’ll get over it,” Elizabeth had said knowingly. “He just needs to have his moment.”

They make it up to the office without further incident. Pulling open the door to reveal the entire White Collar office gathered in anticipation, Neal is ruefully reminded of the day he’d tried to tell Peter that he didn’t want a big deal being made in the workplace. Hah. He’d lost that battle a long time ago, and today, turnabout is going to be fair play.

All eyes are on them. Neal steps aside and allows Peter to enter, which Peter does, but then comes to a halt. There’s a long moment where three dozen career federal agents all stare foolishly at each other, and Neal smirks.

“Diana?” Neal calls, scanning the crowd.

Diana pushes her way forward, looking at the group in bemusement. “Yes?”

“You win.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Diana gives a triumphant shout, punching the air, and everyone else starts hollering.

“What does Diana win?” Peter asks, sounding shell-shocked by the wave of noise.

“The betting pool,” Neal says with a grin, as the first group of FBI agents reach them to start slapping Peter on the back.


	11. The Betting Pool (Part Three)

The rest of the day passes in somewhat of a blur. The (very few) White Collar agents who hadn’t known what Diana’s bet in the pool had been are soon enlightened by the shrieks of their colleagues. Diana had, in fact, been the _only_ person audacious enough to bet on three Omegas, so she’s the sole winner and payee, and she’s feted for her perspicacity nearly as much as Peter is feted for his virility.

“You guys, I’m really just glad they all have ten fingers and ten toes apiece,” Peter says, but his smile seems to get a little bit bigger every time someone congratulates him on his impressive achievement, and it can be seen hovering at the corners of his mouth even when he’s theoretically focusing on his work in all seriousness.

“Hey,” Neal says to him finally, slipping into his office after Jones has walked off with some files and closing the door behind him. “It’s okay to be a little bit proud of yourself. I know you would have loved these pups just the same if they were Alphas, and I know you’re not going to let this go to your head and turn you into someone you’re not. But you _did_ beat the odds, and it’s okay to feel a little bit special for that, because it _is_ special.”

“This isn’t going to go away,” Peter says. Neal’s surprised to hear his tone of voice: despite the still-hovering smile, he sounds dismayed. “Have you thought about what it’s going to be like when they’re born? People will make a fuss. We’ll take them out to the park, and the other parents will comment on it. Three Omegas! Or we’ll go to the supermarket, and someone in line will bring it up... It’s going to be everywhere we turn.”

Neal goes to Peter and puts his arms around his mate. “We’ll deal with that when we get there,” he says gently. “Alpha or Omega, in whatever numerical combination, there were always going to be challenges. The world isn’t perfect. If we’d had three Alphas, we’d be battling random strangers saying ‘oh, how disappointing for you’. Now we’ll have the opposite problem. But I think the three of us can manage to raise Omegas who don’t think the world owes them everything on a silver platter.”

Peter glances up at Neal, and Neal expects him to make a quip about Neal and stolen silver. But he doesn’t. Just sighs.

“I worry,” he says, as if Neal somehow couldn’t tell. “I didn’t expect this. I was all ready to raise my pups to stand up for themselves – I didn’t think of this.”

“That’s because you’re too modest,” Neal says fondly, kissing Peter’s nose. “I always figured there’d be at least one Omega. Elizabeth thought two.”

“Two?” Peter looks shocked. “El thought that?”

“She put money on it.”

“Damn.”

“Hey.” Neal nudges Peter. “You were always going to teach them to respect everyone, right?”

“Of course,” Peter says indignantly.

“And you were always going to teach them the whole world didn’t belong to them.”

Now Peter’s starting to grin. “Their carrier’s expectations to the contrary.”

“I never thought the whole world belonged to me. I just thought it should.”

“Six of one.”

“We raise them to be good people. That’s the first step. The rest we’ll figure out as we go along. Just like every other parents ever.”

Peter sighs. “I’m so glad I have you and El,” he says ruefully. “I’d make a mess of this on my own.”

“I feel the same way.” Neal pauses. “You know, normally this is where I would say El feels the same way too, but actually I don’t think she does.”

“No.” Peter’s grin is full now, real and heartfelt. “Elizabeth knows perfectly well she’d be just fine on her own.”

“Lucky we have her, then.”

“Lucky us.”

There’s a knock on the door. Neal turns and peers through the blinds, making out Diana’s outline.

“Work calls.” Peter sighs. “I’m going to be hearing about this for months.”

Neal leans in and kisses Peter. “You’ll be fine. Their congratulations are well-meant, and the pups can’t hear them yet. Let everyone get it out of their system and they’ll all be settled down when the pups come.”

“Right.” Peter starts looking determined.

“And Peter?” Neal steps away and straightens his tie. “Think of this, please, the next time I tell you I don’t want to make a big workplace fuss over something?”

Peter laughs. Neal smiles, satisfied, and opens the door for Diana.

* * *

The end of the day comes at last, and Neal is glad to snag his coat and scarf. In fact, it’s hard to tell who’s most relieved: himself, to take his sore back and well-patted belly home for some massages and scent therapy with his mates; Peter, to escape the back-slaps and cigars; or Diana, who has clearly had about as many questions as she can stand about how she’d known to bet on three Omegas.

Neal has admired the way she’s kept her cool and turned each agent away with aplomb. But he can tell she’s been getting more irritated, too, and treads carefully when he approaches her desk.

“I come in peace,” Neal says, holding up his hands. “I’m just here to give you the update on the mortgage fraud case.” Diana’s leading this one instead of Peter; it’s partly because Peter has a full caseload already, and partly because Diana is building up her clearance rate as agent-in-charge. The office two down from Peter is going to be vacant in six months when Davidson retires. Diana’s eye is firmly on it.

Diana smiles her appreciation. “Okay, where are we?”

Neal fills her in. They debate a few minor points, agree on how to proceed, and Neal hands over a sheet of paper with the day’s summary for her records.

“Have a good evening, then,” Neal says, turning to go.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Diana says. “How I knew to bet on three Omegas?”

Neal pauses mid-turn. “No,” he says truthfully. “You’re pretty clearly tired of the question, and…” he shrugs. “They’re my pups. That’s all I need to know.”

Diana nods. “And that’s why _you’re_ the one I’ll tell.” She opens a drawer of her desk, takes out a folder, and hands it to Neal.

“What’s this?” Neal flips it open out of sheer reflex. What’s inside isn’t a typical FBI printout. It looks like an academic article. He blinks down at the title: _Factors Affecting Sex Selection in Offspring of Bonded Alpha/Omega Fertile Pairs._ The list of authors sprawls over three lines.

“Take it home and read it with your mates,” Diana suggests. She gets up from her chair and grabs her own coat. “And have a good evening, Neal.”

She’s gone before he can find anything to say. He turns to see the clear glass door closing behind her, and as he’s standing there, a familiar presence appears behind his shoulder.

“Ready to go?” Peter asks.

Neal closes up the folder thoughtfully. “Yeah.”


	12. The Betting Pool (Part Four)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer to get up than I meant it to, but I hope its length compensates for that somewhat :)

Neal puts Diana’s article in his briefcase and then puts his briefcase in the trunk, cutting off any possibility of reading it in the car. Despite Diana’s words, he doesn’t want to pique Peter’s interest until he knows what it contains. Diana knows Peter and Elizabeth, certainly, but she hadn’t been privy to Peter’s small breakdown over the sex of their pups. Safe is better than sorry. As long as Neal doesn’t behave too eagerly towards the file, Peter won’t be curious, assuming it’s just another set of data for Diana’s mortgage fraud case. It would hardly be the first time one or both of them have brought work home.

That in mind, Neal doesn’t so much as glance towards his briefcase after it’s safely stowed in the closet. Instead he tosses a salad to go with El’s spaghetti and lingers at the table with her over sparkling cider while Peter loads the dishwasher. Afterwards comes the ritual of going through Peter’s latest suggestions for pup names (Albert, Matilda, and Clarabelle). Elizabeth suggests a board game next, but Peter begs off, demoralized, instead heading upstairs to take an evening bath.

“And look up more names on his smartphone,” Elizabeth sighs. “Neal? Checkers?”

Neal shakes his head. “I brought home a few files,” he says, making a _what-can-you-do_ gesture.

“Aww,” Elizabeth says. “All right. Then I guess I’ll be good and start going through the new tablecloth samples.” She grins. “But at least _I_ get a glass of wine while I do it.”

“Are you _trying_ to make me get my tubes tied?” Neal laughs. He’s not serious, of course, and Elizabeth kisses him warmly before she gets up to grab her book of samples.

Neal _has_ , in fact, brought home some actual files related to the mortgage fraud, and he skims those while Elizabeth gets herself settled. When she’s absorbed, he puts down the mortgage fraud data and picks up Diana’s article.

Elizabeth has put on some music, soft and classical – Bach, the Brandenburg Concertos. Their gentle strains fall on increasingly deaf ears as Neal reads the article, then reads it again, and then, just to be sure, a third time.

The science isn’t confusing to him. He just wants to be sure.

When Neal finishes his third read, he sets it down in his lap and stares out across the living room. The equalizer bars on their sound system rise and fall with the rhythm of the music. Elizabeth is at the table, pieces of tablecloth and sheets of paper listing prices and volumes spread everywhere. She’s happily absorbed, humming along with Bach. In the kitchen, the dishwasher is running. A few items linger in the drainboard. The counters are wiped clean.

Neal remembers when that kitchen had been remodeled. He remembers the old kitchen. He remembers the old carpet in this living room. The old sound system Peter had had when they’d first met. Sometimes Neal thinks of this house as unchanging, but it’s not. It’s changed. He’s just been here through all the changes. He hasn’t come back to this place after a long time away to be slapped in the face by its differences. He’s grown with this den. With these Alphas. With this life.

He looks down at the paper in his lap.

The article’s premises are simple. Its authors had challenged the general belief that the sex of Alpha/Omega offspring is largely random, with certain biases in population based on prevailing trends such as war, disease, or the availability of food. They argue – and had spent thirty years gathering data to back up their argument – that the critical factor is safety. As measured by the sense of security experienced by the Omega half of the breeding pair.

Security, the authors go on to say, is an umbrella term covering multiple factors. Security from harm is certainly one of them; for example, Omegas in war zones bear more Alphas, as has been known for centuries. But just as important, the data shows, is emotional security. Security in the strength of their relationships, both with the sire and with the other Alphas in their bond. Security in their environment, in their den, in the continuity of their life. Security that the needs of offspring will be met. Security that the future holds the same good things that today does, and perhaps even more.

The more secure the Omega feels, the research clearly shows, the more Omega pups they bear. The Alpha has some impact during the procreative act, but their role in sex selection largely revolves around creating that all-important sense of security.

The Fourth Concerto finishes. There’s a pause before the Fifth begins. Elizabeth looks up, her flow briefly disturbed by the interruption to the routine. She looks over at Neal, the kind of glance that’s the equivalent of a kiss on the cheek: checking in, affirmation. Neal manages a smile. Elizabeth smiles back. A brief rumble shivers the walls – that’s the plumbing. Peter must be letting the water out of his bath. Then the Sixth Concerto begins, and Elizabeth goes back to her work, secure in the knowledge that all is well in her domain.

Alphas feel it too, Neal thinks. The authors haven’t delved much into that side of things, though their conclusions are stunning enough as they are. There will probably be follow-up research that shows that the effect is magnified when _all_ participants in the bond feel secure. Elizabeth certainly does. Peter does, too, Neal thinks. And Neal?

He looks around the house again. He wonders, suddenly, when he’d stopped being afraid.

This isn’t a new feeling. This isn’t something he only experiences after sex, high on endorphins and hormones. This isn’t something unusual or special. Neal _always_ feels this way, nowadays. Sure, some days work stresses him out. Some days Thumper leaves him sore and cranky, or Wiggler leaves him hungry and nauseated. Some days the minor irritations of life get to him. But even then, underneath that superficial layer of annoyance, there’s always this feeling, waiting to wrap Neal in its embrace.

Warmth. Safety. Security. He is secure in Peter’s and Elizabeth’s love for him. In the permanence of their relationship. And more. He’s not living on the run anymore, always looking over his shoulder. He’s rooted here. This house is his home, and he’s not afraid he’s going to have to leave it. Leave this life. Leave these people.

It’s not even _just_ Peter and Elizabeth. It’s Jones and their pack. Diana and their team and their insistence on joining in, from the fertility ritual to the puppy shower they’re not-so-secretly planning. It’s Mozzie and June, building cribs and gleefully accepting the roles of godfather and godmother. Diana and Christie, accepting the equivalent roles as godsires, promising their pack as shelter for the pups should the unthinkable happen and the pups be left orphaned. And Diana again, putting this research into Neal’s hands, so he can understand exactly the magnitude of what his life has become.

Maybe some lucky Omegas always feel this way, their whole lives. Maybe they take it for granted. Neal – Neal can’t possibly take it for granted. He knows, down to his bones, just how lucky he is. And he knows, too, that it’s never going to go away. As long as any of them live, this is how it’s going to be.

No _wonder_ they’d conceived Omegas, he and Peter.

“Neal?” Elizabeth asks. A note of alertness enters her scent. Neal looks up. It’s only when her face blurs that he realizes his eyes are wet.

Elizabeth sees it, too: she gets up at once and comes over to Neal, concern now in her scent. “What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting next to him and putting her arms around him.

“Nothing,” he tells her, and, swallowing, hands her the article. “Nothing at all.”

Elizabeth reads it quickly, puts one hand to her mouth, and flips back to the beginning to read it again. “Oh, Neal,” she breathes, dropping it into her lap and getting Neal into a tight embrace. “Honey, I am so happy. I don’t know what to say.”

“I have to tell Peter,” Neal says. He’s half laughing and half crying, and so happy he doesn’t know what to do.

“Don’t try to climb those stairs right now, you’ll fall,” she says. “Let me go get him.”

“No,” Neal says, catching her arm as Elizabeth goes to stand. “It’s late, we’re tired – let’s go upstairs. Have this conversation in bed.”

Elizabeth’s eyes darken. “In bed,” she agrees. Her voice has dropped a fifth, and it makes something hot stir in the put of Neal’s stomach, right where Lead Weight makes her home.

Elizabeth helps Neal balance on unsteady legs and lends Neal her arm to climb the stairs. Peter is just coming out of the bathroom as they settle on the bed. He looks at them both quizzically.

“You’ve been crying,” Peter says slowly, “but you smell glad. What is it?”

“Come here, honey,” Elizabeth beckons. “Join us. Neal has something wonderful to tell you.”

“Diana found it,” Neal says, voice cracking.

“Tell me,” Peter says, coming and disposing himself on the bed next to Neal. Lying between his mates, Elizabeth spooning supportively behind him and Peter facing him, head propped up on his arm, Neal loses the ability to speak. He just hands Peter the file and lets Elizabeth put her arm around him.

Peter is the only one among them to only read the article once. He reads it once, and then turns around and sets it carefully on the bedside table, out of reach. Then he turns back to Neal and reaches for him. Neal scoots closer, and Elizabeth scoots too, and then Peter scoots some, and then they’re all wedged together in the middle of their palatial bed. Neal is the center, and he’s not quite sure he’s got enough air, but he doesn’t want to move.

“We made you feel that good,” Peter says. He sounds choked. “El and I, we made you feel that way.”

“Yeah,” Neal says. He swallows. “Yeah, you did.”

“El,” Peter says to her. “We did this.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agrees. She sounds firm, sure. A rock amidst the ocean. “We did.”

“It’s been a long time since I thought you would really run from us again,” Peter says to Neal. “But even after I stopped thinking we’d lose you, I couldn’t quite stop watching the exits. You know? Watching you. Making sure you and the exits weren’t anywhere near each other.”

“I know,” Neal says. “I’ve never wanted to run – but for a long time I kept an eye out, regardless. I felt like I had to. Like I might have to run whether I wanted to or not.” He really _does_ have to breathe; he nudges Peter until Peter leans back. “But I stopped,” Neal goes on, after his lungs are full. “I stopped, at some point, and I never even noticed when. I stopped even thinking of any other life. I guess I finally knew. Knew that even if I were threatened, even if I were in danger, I’d stay. I’d take anything, face anything, rather than leave.”

“Nothing will harm you,” Peter says reflexively.

“He knows that, honey,” Elizabeth says. “That’s part of the puzzle, too.” From behind, she squeezes Neal tight. “He knows we’d take anything and everything before we let it get to him.”

“I do,” Neal affirms.

“I can’t quite believe it,” Peter says.

“You’d better believe it,” Neal says, “because in four months we’re going to have three little Omegas, and the entire world is going to know, whenever they see us, that that’s the life you created for me. Both of you. For all of us.”

Peter laughs once. It’s incredulous, and it’s joyful, and it’s starting to believe.

“Neal,” he says, “you’re a miracle.”

“He is,” Elizabeth agrees.

Neal leans forward just as Peter does. Their lips meet. Behind them, Elizabeth kisses Neal’s shoulder, right over the scar her mating bite had left, and rocks her hips gently forward.

It turns out to have been a good thing that Peter had set the article aside.


	13. The Naming of Pups (Part Three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long - for some reason it was really hard to write!

It takes a few days, but eventually people in White Collar stop slapping Peter on the back and settle down to work. They’re still treating Neal like he’s made of particularly fine porcelain, but that suits Peter just fine, so Neal resigns himself to it continuing up to the day he whelps.

Once the brouhaha over _three Omegas_ passes, Peter seems to remember, suddenly, that they still don’t have names for the pups. Somehow having sexes but not names seems worse that when they’d only been amorphous, sexless blobs on a screen. His search ramps into overdrive. He’s bringing home new suggestions every day. The problem, as Neal sees it, isn’t the volume of options: the problem is that Peter and Elizabeth have wildly differing opinions on what constitutes a ‘good’ name. No amount of name books or website namefinder tools are going to solve that.

Neal spends the first week seeing the humor in it. He spends the next week practicing the fine art of fading into the background. Peter and Elizabeth have both taken to appealing to him for his opinions, which is problematic, since his _opinion_ is that it really doesn’t matter what their given names are – what else are aliases for? – and he thinks they’d all be happiest if they stopped arguing about it. They’ve still got months before these pups enter the world; Neal is confident that _something_ will change matters before then. In the meanwhile, his blood pressure is starting to rise uncomfortably. Dr. Kuang clucks over Neal at his checkup and tells him to avoid sources of stress in his life.

Neal had hoped that this would cause Peter to scale it back a little, but all it ends up meaning is that Peter takes to arguing with El in carrying whispers where he thinks Neal can’t hear, and trying to convince Neal to stop listening in on the comms at work. The operative word being _trying._ At least Peter listens when Neal tells him that he’ll only be more stressed if he can’t be certain that Peter is safe. Still, it makes matters at the office awkward. Jones develops a worried look. Diana’s is disgusted.

“It’s important,” Peter is saying one day from within the van. Neal is safely and boringly back at the office, listening with half an ear while scanning financial documents and looking for irregularities.

“No one’s saying names aren’t important, but you’re taking this to a ridiculous extreme,” Diana says. Her tact operates in inverse proportion to her patience, which in turn is linked to how big of an idiot she thinks you’re being. Lately she’s been very blunt to Peter.

“A good name sets you up for a good life!” Peter argues.

“And a bad name gets changed at the courthouse for sixty-five bucks and ten minutes with a judge,” Jones says. Unlike Diana, Jones only manages to sound _more_ patiently reasonable the less actual patience he has. There’s a reason he’s the one they send to talk down antsy perps. Something about the way Jones explains things makes it hard to disagree with him.

Peter makes a disgusted sound. “A name change is a sign that the parents didn’t do their job right in the first place.”

Neal groans. So does Diana, and _she_ isn’t on mute.

“If you have any bright suggestions, let’s hear them,” Peter snaps. Neal winces. Diana’s and Jones’ patience aren’t the only ones running thin.

“Tiberius,” Diana says.

Neal can _hear_ Peter recoil. “What on Earth – ”

There’s a familiar creaking sound that Neal knows, from long experience, means that Diana has tipped her chair back, the better to stare Peter down. “It’s classical,” she says. “It’s a name formerly used by rulers. Everyone knows how to pronounce it when they see it. Everyone knows how to spell it when they hear it.”

“Well, mostly,” Jones mutters.

“But it’s – ugly,” Peter says blankly.

Neal starts laughing. A passing agent gives him a strange look; Neal waves a hand apologetically and gestures to the wire dangling from one ear. He also pushes his stack of paperwork away. He’s not really looking at it anyway.

“We all know you like beauty,” Jones deadpans, and hey, had that been a compliment? Neal is taking that as a compliment. “But beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“And bruises are in the eye of the victim,” Peter shoots back. “Besides, Tiberius was corrupt and a degenerate. I’m not giving that name to my pups!”

“Though Kirk made it work,” Jones says, thoughtfully, as an aside.

“Hephaestus,” Diana counters, ignoring Jones. “The most sought-after goddess in existence found him beautiful, after all.”

“Found _him_ beautiful. Not his name. Besides, by that logic, I should name one of them Aphrodite.” There’s a pause, and then Peter adds: “Which is not going to happen.”

“That one _does_ get mispronounced a lot,” Jones says. “The problem with these Greek and Roman names is that you actually do have to learn to pronounce them the first time. And not everyone gets to study mythology in school. There’s a privilege litmus test going on.” He pauses. “Diana’s a good name.”

“Shot down,” Peter sighs. “The entire Greek and Roman pantheons. Anything I like is too common, according to El.”

“I think I’m offended,” Diana says lightly.

There’s a sudden burst of chatter from the surveillance mics, and the conversation drops. Neal’s heart drops, too. But it turns out to be a false alarm, and everything settles.

“So your pups’ names have to be classical, traditional, easily readable and writeable, meaningful, beautiful, and _not_ common,” Diana summarizes after a few moments.

“And the whole ‘name used by rulers’ thing had a nice sound to it,” Peter says thoughtfully.

“Peter, these names don’t exist.”

“Vikings didn’t have this problem,” Peter grumbles. “They just named themselves after famous dead heroes. Famous dead heroes whose names everyone knew. And if you needed it to be unique – ” Neal can _hear_ the air quotes – “you added a color to it or something. Erik the Red. Boom, unique name.”

Neal frowns. He doesn’t want to name their kids Erik the Red, but actually – now that Peter mentions Vikings – and in light of Diana’s efficient summary –

“I can guarantee you that anyone named Erik the Red will get beaten up on the playground,” Jones is saying.

Neal tugs his keyboard over and runs a quick Google search. He’s not personally up on Norse mythology – that’s Peter’s thing, and love Peter as he might, his one and only attempt at interesting himself in Peter’s hobby had involved a book named _Njalssaga_ , a lot of wine, and eventual failure. With all the other things they have in common, it hadn’t seemed worth pushing for. They’re never short of ways to spend their free time, after all. But Neal has seen the same movies everyone else has, and he’s pretty sure…

He takes himself off mute. “Odin,” he says.

“Neal?” Peter says. There’s a pause. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to listen in on the comms anymore!”

There’s a chorus of groans. This time Peter can hear that Neal’s is the loudest. “We did _not_!” Neal cries. “I agreed to stay out of the field, not to stay out of our _lives_ , Peter.”

There’s some suspicious mumbling, followed by what sounds a lot like someone delivering an – ahem – friendly smack.

“What’s up?” Jones says innocently, when the noises have settled.

“Odin,” Neal repeats. “The ruler of the Norse gods. Very classical. Thanks to those Marvel movies, everyone knows how to pronounce and spell the name.”

“No one’s going to beat the king of the gods up on the playground,” Diana says thoughtfully.

“ _And_ – ” Neal finishes another search. “Only 684 Odins were registered with the Social Security database in 2015. That’s barely a hundredth of a percent of all births. Think that’s rare enough for Elizabeth?”

“Odin wasn’t exactly the best father in those movies,” Peter objects.

Neal rolls his eyes. “So we pick other Norse names. The point is – ”

“I hear you,” Peter concedes. There’s another pause. This one lasts longer, and ends when Peter asks, sheepishly, “Can _you_ be the one to bring this up to Elizabeth?”

Neal laughs.

* * *

Elizabeth does rib Peter, gently, for having managed to work Vikings into naming their pups. In vain does Peter protest that it had been Neal’s idea. She only switches gears and ribs him for not thinking of it earlier, and saving them all a lot of grief.

“You’ve got me there,” Peter sighs from his end of the couch. “I don’t know why I never thought of it.”

“And you can even get creative with spellings,” Elizabeth muses. “Transliteration offers some wiggle room. Freya? Freja? Freyja?” She considers. “I like the ‘yj’ construction.”

“We’re going with the canonical transliteration,” Neal says hastily, one eye on Peter. “Only modifications allowed are to remove characters not commonly found in modern English.”

“But I wanted to name one Njörðr,” Elizabeth says, with mischief aforethought.

Neal puts an arm around Peter and gives Eliabeth a Look. “No you didn’t.”

Elizabeth grins. “All right, maybe not.”

“I’m thinking of Týr,” Peter says, thumbing through his beloved _Prose Edda_. “If I render it without the diacritic, do you think people will still know how to pronounce it?”

“Probably,” Elizabeth says.

Peter frowns. “I may conduct an informal workplace poll.”

“What are you thinking, Neal?” Elizabeth asks. “Since it was your idea, I assume you have something in mind.”

Neal hesitates. This proves to be a fatal mistake, because now Peter is looking at him, too.

“Honey?” Elizabeth prompts.

“Well, to be honest…” he clears his throat.

“Uh oh,” Peter says.

“Just tell us,” Elizabeth encourages.

Neal smiles weakly. “Loki?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went more than a week without writing, so I am changing over to marking this complete. That doesn't mean there will never be any more, just that I'm not promising them within a certain period of time. I recommend bookmarking the series rather than the fic because there may be other stories in this 'verse as well. Thanks everyone for reading and commenting!

**Author's Note:**

> If there's anything in particular it would make you squee to see, suggest it in the comments!


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